Ode to the Winter of Our Discontent


 Look outside, all ye children, from Hull to Revere,

Snow banks melting away must mean spring is here.

‘Twas quite surely the winter of our discontent.

More snow in one city than three continents.

One foot if by land and two if by sea,

Constantly checking for closings on WBZ.

Harvey, Cindy and Jeremy please, Pete Bouchard,
Please say it ain’t so; no more snow in our yards!
The stockings were hung on the ice dams with care.
Single digits were common, double digits were rare.
Olympics in Boston? Why not; bring ’em on.
They can ski off my roof and curl on my lawn.
The potholes were land mines consuming our tires.
Water froze in the hoses before reaching the fires.
Pounding waves, wicked cold, snow piled up to our necks.
Crashing roofs, buried cars, collapsed awnings and decks.
The T? A disaster. Freezing people were stranded.
“Fix this now! Not tomorrow,” Charlie Baker demanded.
Frayed nerves, blocked curbs, kids in school til mid-summer.
Sore backs, heart attacks, this was really a bummer.
One day on my rooftop there arose such a clatter
When a man hired from Craigslist climbed up on a ladder.
He shoveled my shingles and cleared off the ducts.
For two hours of work it cost 500 bucks.
This winter from hell left us all on the brink.
Recession, depression, someone please call my shrink!
If I have to shovel one more single flake
You might find me in August face down in a lake.
Oh what did we do to deserve such a fate?
Global warming or karma? It’s up for debate.
With a winter like this one I can’t help but wonder
If Deflategate’s the reason for snow mixed with thunder.
Mother Nature, are you mad we messed with those balls
And won the Lombardi with one bonehead call?
Get over it, woman. We’ve suffered enough 
It’s officially spring so get off your duff.
Bring us sunshine and warming and flowers and trees!
Forsythia, jonquils and gold honeybees.
Time to break out the shorts and show off our pale legs.
Snow has fallen; time for pollen and bright Easter eggs.
All New England agrees, Western Maine to the coast,
This springtime’s the one we’ll appreciate most.
From snow-damaged rooftops the people will shout:
“It’s been real, Mother Nature. Now get the hell out!”

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